I Predict a Riot
by PepperOrange
Summary: John Watson has never had a formal education. While traveling to different countries is adventurous, it's nothing compared to what he'll experience in boarding school. The work's unforgiving, his sister embarrasses him, and there are rumors about a new drug killing prep school kids. And then there's Sherlock Holmes, more dangerous than any of the three. (Mostly pre-slash)
1. Getting to Know Sherlock Holmes

**This is my first ever fic here. So…yay!  
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* * *

**LESTRADE**

There were many perks of being a teacher in Banhart's Academy. The salary, for example, was higher than one would expect for a teacher. But seeing as you were responsible for molding the minds of future CEO's, brain surgeons, and politicians, add to that the fact that said future successful being were children from the most prestigious families, it was only fair to get a high pay. No one would ever see a teacher of Banhart's who did not have a car in good working condition, or who did not own a cellular phone of the latest model. It was simply unheard of.

Greg Lestrade himself had been able to buy a brand new car after his first year of teaching. He had been twenty-four, then, fresh-faced and eager to show his prowess before the class.

Now, Lestrade was thirty-six and no longer a teacher. Instead, he was the vice principal and the owner of five cars, a three-storey house with its own pool, and a small villa in Morocco. When it came to money, Lestrade was well-off and quite satisfied. Most teachers were and it was quite rare to have one storm in and demand a raise.

Well, three years ago maybe.

The change was because of Sherlock Holmes, one of the most dangerous students Lestrade had ever set his eyes on. Most teachers hated the boy. It wasn't because he was a bully or a slacker. They hated him for his superior intellect. Strange, yes, but not until you met him. They hated his correcting them and making everyone else look like fools by solving each problem with that smug smile and the muttered words, "I can't believe you weren't able to figure that out." He was also socially inept and seemed to have dropped his moral code some time during his birth. Asperger's Syndrome was what his doctors had diagnosed him with, but Lestrade often thought he was just a big twat. And there was that uncanny ability of deducing things with just one look, that lack of sensitivity as he told the whole school of teachers having affairs and students having sex scandals.

Sherlock was a difficult case, so difficult in fact that two teachers had resigned just to get away from the horror that was the sixteen-year-old. Lestrade knew that if he hadn't been the vice principal, the poor sod in his place wouldn't last a week, Problem students like these were usually sent to the principal, but as carter was always travelling with his wife, it was up to Lestrade to deal with them. Carter wouldn't be able to handle Sherlock, anyway. It was not because Lestrade was a master in the art of patience. Rather, it was because he had known Sherlock since he was just a baby due to his older brother Mycroft being a childhood friend of Lestrade's. Entering the school and becoming a student of his had done little to change their relationship, Sherlock called him Lestrade instead of 'sir' and whenever he wanted to annoy Lestrade, he would call him 'Greg'. Lestrade should have minded, but the thing was, he was so used to Sherlock's company, he often forgot to act professionally.

Right now, he was swearing. Openly cursing in front of a student wasn't acceptable, especially in prep schools such as these were a lawsuit was just waiting round the corner. But they were in his office and this was Sherlock. The same Sherlock Lestrade had helped babysit. The same Sherlock who'd pulled at his sleeve and insisted he come trick-or-treating with him. He had been swearing in front of him for years, and had once, as a joke, given him his first sex talk. Not that Sherlock had even understood. Lestrade doubted Sherlock even had those urges.

This was a bad thing for some members of the student body as Sherlock was considered to be one of the most attractive people in Banhart's. He had a small group of admirers, those who were surprisingly numb to his rude nature. Lestrade had to admit he was good-looking, enough that one would willingly do him favors (if he kept his mouth shut, of course). And he knew it, too, which was why teachers who'd been infuriated with him only moments ago, would melt at the sight of a smile and a few words of flattery. This tactic, however, did not work on Lestrade. Sherlock had tried it a while ago and all it had done to Lestrade was make him nearly rupture an artery.

"I told you a hundred times already. No!" Lestrade was now leaning against his desk, his throat sore from having shout for an hour straight. Across him, sitting in the chair that should have made students cower in fear, was the bane of many teachers' existence. His hands were steepled beneath his chin, his eyes half-closed. Clearly, he'd been tuning him out. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and willed his blood pressure to go down. "Sherlock, I'd happily give you a single if you just stopped doing your experiments."

This had been Sherlock's problem since his sophomore year. He'd had his own dorm room in his first year, insomnia being his excuse. It all ended when, two weeks before the end of the year, Sherlock had managed to set his bed on fire, causing the students in the boy's dormitory to form a stampede. If Mycroft hadn't paid the damages and added some more to the alumni trust fund, Sherlock would have gotten expelled. His brother had suggested Sherlock get himself a roommate as he was less likely to cause as much damage with someone breathing down his shoulder.

It worked a bit. The only problem was, Sherlock was bent on driving his roommates away. Only three days had passed and his roommate, a portly boy named Orson Farrell, was already asking for a switch. Apparently, Sherlock had brought a decomposing pig's head inside the room for another one of his experiments. And he had even placed Farrell's reading glasses on it.

"They keep me sane," Sherlock said after a minute of silence. He opened his eyes. Lestrade tensed under his gaze. Cold and calculating. Those colorless eyes gave him the impression Sherlock was really some sort of demon in disguise. He sure acted like one.

"You know how I get when I'm bored, Lestrade," he continued. "I need something to distract me from the fact that I'm stuck in this place full of imbeciles."

Imbeciles. One of Sherlock's favorite words.

Lestrade groaned. "I really, really wish Mycroft had enrolled you in a different school."

"And I really, really wish he hadn't enrolled me at all. All that talk of needing a formal education…he could have killed me with boredom. You and I both know I don't need one. My brother's insistence of being normal sickens me. I'm far from normal and I'll happily stay that way."

You're a freak, Lestrade thought. He immediately felt guilty. They were not his words but Sally Donovan's, one of the many students who loathed Sherlock.

"Anyway you're experiments…It's not even allowed!"

"And yet you've never done anything to truly stop me. My experiments keep me sane and keeping me sane means I can perfect all those tests. And me passing all those tests guarantees that this school—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're smart and we need you to keep this school's reputation." That was what was worrying. When Sherlock graduated, they might not have another student smart enough to replace him. But then again, someone as smart as Sherlock would have to be a little insane. And the dormitory walls had suffered enough abuse.

"But still, I really can't put you in a single. You're less destructive when you're with someone else."

"You can't find another one. No one's willing, not since I sent Evan Brody to therapy." He looked at Lestrade smugly.

"Or not since you stopped being friends with Victor Trevor."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Lestrade knew he'd regret it. Sherlock was very good at hiding his emotions but Lestrade had learned to read him. The mirth in his eyes faded and they became cold and hard once again.

"It's not your place—"

"I know. Sorry, wasn't thinking clearly."

There were many things you did not talk about with Sherlock if you didn't want your intelligence to be insulted. And there were things that should never see the light of day because they opened old wounds. Victor Trevor was one of these things. There were others of course. His father, for one thing. But Victor was the most recent and it had hurt far more than his father's death.

There was a moment of awkward silence which was broken by Sherlock saying, "I don't want any of them with me, Lestrade. You know why."

"We have a late enrollee who'll arrive this afternoon." He patted the boy's head gently. Sherlock flinched and Lestrade withdrew his hand. We come from a family that never hugs, he recalled Mycroft saying. Even a simple pat on the back was foreign to this estranged boy. Lestrade felt sympathetic towards him, something he knew Sherlock would never forgive him for.

"Be nice to him. I don't want another kid sobbing and another parent complaining. Which means no dead whatevers lying around when he enters the room. Do it. Or I'll call your brother and tell him you're being unreasonable again."

Sherlock grimaced. Threatening him with Mycroft's presence often worked. Sherlock loathed his brother and would do anything just so he could avoid seeing his face.

"Fine. But just today."

"I'd be surprised if you can last more than four hours."

* * *

**JOHN**

John Watson had never been to boarding school. In fact, he had never had a formal education. He had been home-schooled his whole life as his parents were the kind who traveled constantly and who wanted their kids to experience the same wonders as them. He had been to Brazil and Japan and more recently, he'd been to Saudi. He had never entered the school world. John would later find that this was more dangerous than any of the countries he'd been to.

Banhart's was his father's choice. He and John's mother had both graduated there and according to his grandfather, there was no finer school in the world. This never would have happened if John had not been shot during their stay in Saudi. He had gotten a bullet to the shoulder, though John reckoned that had just been a mistake on his attacker's part. Not that John wasn't thankful the robber had been incompetent with a gun. But it had hurt quite a lot and the incident had left John with nightmares of blood and violence.

His mother had been even more shaken that him. "Can't afford to lose any of you," she had told him through tears when he woke up in the hospital, battered and bruised. "Leaving you in England will do you good." Then she'd gone on of how she was a horrible mother and how stupid she was because she hadn't kept a close eye on either of them and damn him because what had he been thinking? John's ears were ringing by the time she'd finished.

Harry had complained, of course, and was still complaining. His sister was the wild child, the rebel, the one who always got arrested for petty crimes. John felt a little relieved that his sister got into Banhart's as well. There were rules here, and even though rules could be broken, at least Harry wouldn't be running around with a bottle in her hand every second of the day.

"This is all your fault," she said as they wheeled their bags to their respective dormitories. She was glaring at him and she looked downright frightening with all that eye make-up and her newly pierced nose, so much that John bit his tongue and stared straight ahead. He and Harry often fought, and when it was physical, John always lost. It did not matter that he was a few pounds heavier and that he was athletic because of all that rugby he played. She was nearly a head taller than him, something she never failed to point out, and her fingernails were long enough to be considered talons. John remembered how she had nearly torn off his ear during a scuffle. He wasn't too keen on having that happen again.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Two years. He'd stay here for two years and Harry would graduate this year. If she could even make it that far. Not that John wished she'd get kicked out. Despite Harry's treatment towards him, he did care for her. Silently, he prayed that Banhart's would help clean his sister's act.

"Oi, you brat, pay attention!" She punched his shoulder, the one that was still healing, and glared down at him. John bit his lip and tried not to scream. "If you hadn't been stupid enough to go wandering alone, we wouldn't be in this shithole."

"I was looking for you," he hissed, his patience worn thin. "Honestly, Harry, what were you thinking? Going off on your own in an unknown country to go to some pub. They could have raped you!"

"They were Asian tourists, idiot, and they were big nerds as well. And I know how to take care of myself unlike you. If you went out more, you'd know to avoid dark alleys and to always wear your worst clothes. It's your own fault you were mugged."

"Shot me as well," he muttered, feeling more and more annoyed with Harry. He'd only done the right thing. What if she had gotten drunk and passed out somewhere? They could have molested her in her sleep. "Lucky I'm alive."

"I don't see it that way," she snapped. That one hurt. John gritted his teeth. Damn her! They hadn't always been this way. They'd been good friends when they were kids. What had happened?

They walked in silence. Harry was fuming and so was John. If anyone saw them right now, they'd probably see smoke coming out of their ears. But there was no one, only a few teachers running to their classes and the occasional janitor. A man trimming the hedges outside the boy's dormitory waved at them. John nodded his head curtly, muttered a goodbye to Harry, then lugged his bag up the steps.

The dorm was surprisingly spacious inside. Quiet also, but that was because it was two o'clock and the students were still in class. John paused at the bulletin board near the door where penises were drawn all over notices and fliers. The picture of a boy with wire-rim glasses and a spindly neck had the words Motherfucking Cunt for Headboy written below. John did not know what to make of it. He was not new to graffiti, but he didn't think he'd see them in prestigious prep schools such as Banhart's. Clearly, he had no idea what went on in school.

His room was upstairs. John's heart sank slightly when he realized how many steps there were. His bag was not so heavy, but it would still be a bother to his shoulder. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the climb. By the time he was finished, John was out of breath and his shoulder seemed to be on fire/ He leaned against the wall for a while and willed himself not to pass out from the pain.

The streams of violin music was what kept his mind off it. They seemed to be coming from down the hall. Funny, John thought, why was there a student in the dorm at this time? John dragged his luggage behind him. Tchaikovsky, he guessed. There was someone playing Tchaikovsky in the dorm.

Oh.

In his room.

So he would be meeting his roommate a little earlier than he'd expected. Not a bother. John was pretty sociable. He raised his hand to knock on the door and announce his presence. Only someone was already bidding him enter, even before his knuckles hit wood. The speaker had a deep voice, very posh and one that told John this was someone who'd been born with a silver spoon. John's confidence faltered slightly. They were rich enough to get in the school, but John had been raised modestly. He did not know what he would do if his roommate started talking about stock exchange.

The smell on antiseptic greeted him, strong but not enough to mask the sweet scent of rot. The room was very large with dark green walls. It was also very messy. In the center stood a tall boy with his back to John, a violin dangling from his left hand.

"Hi," John said, feeling nervous. He extended his hand. "I'm—"

"John Watson, I know." The boy turned on his heel to face him. He had a slightly elfin face with high cheekbones and very, very light eyes. And pale. His roommate was nearly paper. The dark curls on his forehead stood out against all that white. "I did my research."

John lowered his hand. "What?"

"Lestrade told me your name." Those pale eyes flickered over him. "And I figured out the rest. Saudi, correct?"

John blinked. His roommate was already moving to the bed on the right which was covered with jars and papers and petri dishes. John noticed the microscope sitting at the headrest instead of a pillow.

"You have questions to ask. Fire away. I have time to talk."

"Oh…uh, okay, how'd you know about Saudi?"

"Tan but not above the wrists and there's an atrocious giant gold bracelet around it—do take it off it looks ridiculous. You're a traveler which I can see from the state of your bag and the indeterminate accent you have. You've been with a drinker as well as I can smell alcohol on you. Not you as it's not on your breath. The drinker's a member of your family. Not a girlfriend as you travel a lot. Not your parents as travelers such as them would prefer something more exotic and that's just Budweiser I can smell. A brother, then, and he's been with you all morning or you two have been stuck in a car with so much luggage that the lack of space required more body contact than necessary." The boy paused then looked at the wall clock. John closed his mouth which had fallen open at some point in the boy's monologue. "That," he stammered, "was absolutely _brilliant!"_

The boy seemed startled. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, you've figured everything out! Well, you got the brother part wrong because I have a sister but she is an alcoholic."

"A sister?" He seemed almost upset to have gotten it wrong. "There's always something." He pressed his lips together until they were almost a line. "Well, I haven't managed to frighten you off so introductions are a must. The name's Sherlock Holmes. I play the violin during the hours of night and early morning and sometimes I go days without talking. I experiment a lot so don't be surprised to see me walking in with some random body part—and that explains the smell which Lestrade forced me to get rid of. The mini fridge is filled with my petri dishes and experiments but I suppose you can move them if you _have _to put food in there. Your bed." He pointed to the bed at the left. "Mine." He pointed at the mess that was his. "Keep to your space and I'll do my best to keep to mine."

Smart but far from friendly. John nodded then set to unpacking. Sherlock had made some space in his bed so he could sit down. He watched John unpack while he played some Verdi.

"Why aren't you in class then? John asked as he folded his jumpers. Sherlock eyed them with distaste. "I mean, it's only two-thirty."

"Sometimes I go, sometimes I don't. The faculty's not very fond of me as I keep revealing how incompetent they really are. No one minds. It's only when I'm absent for three days straight that Lestrade forces me to go to class."

"You're close to the vice principal, huh?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He's my older brother's friend and I've known him since birth."

"That's...awkward."

"It's a leverage."

John finished folding. He scratched the back of his neck, looked for something else to do, then gave up and began asking Sherlock questions again. "So what goes on in this school?" he asked. "I mean, this is my first time to go to one because, uh, I've been homeschooled my whole life and well, I…I was kind of wondering if…"

"You're asking me show you the ropes. You're wasting your time. I'm not loved here."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed as if John had done something very stupid. "Why should I be?"

It was Mike Stamford who told him why the following morning. John's first class was Chemistry and the beefy teenager had been assigned his lab partner. They talked about rugby for a while until Mike ruined the mood by asking him if he was Sherlock's roommate.

"Wow, I'm sorry for you," he said, sounding quite sincere. "Boy's a big twat, he is. Always showing off how smart he is and nosing about. Kid's a psycho if you ask me." They both looked over their shoulders Sherlock was at the back, working solo. He did not look very happy to there, either. John had woken up to the vice principal knocking on their door. He then watched while Mr. Lestrade pried the sheets off Sherlock and half dragged him to the bathroom, yelling how dare he not attend any of his classes.

"He's a freak." The speaker was a black girl named Sally Donovan. Her curly hair bounced when she whipped her head to look at them. "One day you'll see him in the headlines as serial killer. Causes trouble because he says he gets bored. I'm surprised he hasn't killed you yet."

John felt a little uncomfortable with the conversation. Sherlock was rude but he hadn't been very mean. The only bad thing John had experienced so far was opening the fridge to find a human hand on a plate of fine china.

"I don't think he's so bad."

"It's only because you're new. You'll learn to hate him soon enough. He's so unbearable it's no wonder he doesn't have friends."

"Remember when Victor Trevor pretended to be friends wit him for a bet? I almost felt sorry for the freak. Then I remembered how horrible he is." Mike and Sally clapped their hands over their mouths to muffle their laughter. John tried to join in but it died in his chest. He looked back again and was not surprised to see Sherlock staring at him.

John's fresh meat status wasn't much of a disadvantage to knowing how things worked in school. Classes were easy enough to understand, but thanks to Mike and another boy named Davis, John got the gist of how they interacted. He sat with the athletic types everyday during lunch. Their table faced one of the huge bay windows in the canteen, where John could clearly see Sherlock. He never entered the canteen which was no wonder as John doubted the boy even ate anything at all. He always sat under a huge oak tree, thinking or sticking nicotine patches to his forearm. He was not there on Wednesday which John guessed was the day Sherlock had lunch with the vice principal and his family. He had an annoyed expression on his face when he returned to the dorm, and there was s smear of red sauce on the corner of his mouth, plus a kiss mark on his forehead.

Obviously, Sherlock was not well-loved. People murmured angrily whenever he passed, and once, John saw a senior shove him on his way to the lab. Sherlock hadn't fought back, but he did glare at the other boy. This seemed to be an even bigger threat than a fist as his attacker had slunk away.

Not everyone hated Sherlock, though. A few of the teachers, mostly the female ones, seemed quite fond of him. Mrs. Hudson their music teacher had even ruffled his hair when he sat down and picked up his violin. He was her favorite, even when he wasn't holding an instrument. Meanwhile, John had been chided for dropping the clarinet he'd been handed as Davis had been trying to make him laugh.

One student, a girl name Molly Hooper, was head-over-heels for Sherlock. She would openly attack anyone who insulted him. "He's a sweetheart, really. People just don't understand," she said, seeming to have forgotten Sherlock pointing out the pimple on her nose and telling her how unflattering it was. Then she ran off to get him some coffee from the vending machine.

John did not hate Sherlock either and he felt that he never would. Yes, he was rude and annoying and he dissected frogs too much for John's liking. But all in all, he was not a bad person. He was just frank and too smart for his own good.

John wondered if Sherlock did not like him. He often stared at John curiously and he never failed to tell him his jumpers looked hideous. He treated him like a servant sometimes by telling John to get him a drink or to go get a book from the library. He also had no respect for other's privacy. John would wake up in the middle of the night to see Sherlock in the window seat playing violin. He would open his closet to see that some of his clothes had become part of Sherlock's experiments. A normal person would have bolted away or picked a fight but John was a very patient person. Also, it was clear Sherlock was only doing this to make him move out, showing John that this was what he'd experience for the rest of the year if he didn't leave now. John didn't give in easily. And besides, life with Sherlock was interesting.

By the end of his first week, the answer to John's question was revealed.

He was studying for vocab when Sherlock entered the room, looking a little puzzled. He then made some space on the desk and sat right on John's notes. Keep to your space and I'll keep to mine, John recalled. Only Sherlock didn't seem to get the idea of personal space. He often sat too close, and when John had complained, Sherlock had only pressed against him to become more infuriating.

John tapped his pencil against his temple and tried to ignore Sherlock. But he was too much of a distraction. Besides, his butt was covering John's lectures.

"You're not boring," was what Sherlock told him. John looked at him, waiting for more. They never came though as their were none to add. Sherlock got off the desk, grabbed his moleskine, then went off, telling John he'd bother Lestrade for a while. It was only when Sherlock was out of the room that John realized that that was the closest thing to a compliment coming from Sherlock.

So Sherlock did not hate him as in his world, there was only boring and not boring.

For some reason, this was more flattering than any of the compliment's he'd received. Perhaps it was because this was Sherlock, the same boy who was rumored to actually be a robot in disguise. The fact that he'd actually admitted another human being was interesting was astounding.

John allowed himself to smile. He was not boring.


	2. 132

**Sherlock's POV here is a little heavy. So as a head's up I'm going to tell you that most of the chapters where Sherlock's POV dominates will be serious. Chapters where John's POV dominates will be funny and light because John's made of kittens.**

**PS The grading system in their school follows the American grading system. I'm not familiar with the grading system in UK but my friend who migrated there three years ago told me that she goes to a school that follows the American one. I have no idea if there a lot of schools like that there, but since I don't want to screw things up to much I'll just write what I know.  
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**Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC Sherlock characters and those from the original that have yet to appear in the series, but I do own the other students and faculty members.  
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* * *

**SHERLOCK**

The book was the size of a small television set and almost as heavy as a two-year-old child. It was leather-bound and quite old, its yellowing pages already loose and beginning to crack at the edges. The name on the cover, written in gold and peeling slightly, was Captain Siger Holmes. But on the front page, written in the unsteady hand of a young child, was the name Sherlock.

The book had been Sherlock's father's most prize possession. The man had also been talented in the art of deduction, even more than his two sons, and he had been loved for it because unlike the other two, he'd always found a way to make people laugh. His favorite past time had been to write profiles of the people he'd met, all of which were in the first forty pages of the book. Originally, his father had filled up forty-nine pages, but Sherlock had ripped out the nine which were all about him, Mycroft, and his mother. Their respective profiles were in their possession, and while Sherlock had intended to burn his for his own protection, he could not do so. Currently his pages were safely hidden somewhere not even his meddling brother would find.

The book came into Sherlock's possession shortly after his father had been confined in the hospital due to a heart attack. Three days later, he died and Sherlock had put his name on the book, officially claiming it as his. His father had left him three-hundred pages, waiting to be filled with people's lives.

The night after he met John Watson, Sherlock opened it to a new page. In his neat handwriting, he wrote John's name at the top. This was the beginning. In two day's time, John's profile would be complete.

Only it was not as easy as Sherlock had thought because John was just, well, different. Sherlock had known it three minutes and forty-eight seconds after he came into the room. This was the time Sherlock had finished his deduction of him, and John had exclaimed "Brilliant!" while at the same time looking sincerely awestruck. His reaction had caught Sherlock completely off-guard. He had not expected that. He was used to people calling him a freak or telling him to shove off for being so nosy. No one ever praised this ability of his, not even his mother who thought it would only get Sherlock in trouble (because it always did). Mycroft, who had the same ability, told Sherlock not to abuse it. The only person who had ever encourage it was his father, but he had been dead for nearly a decade so this praise was almost alien to Sherlock's ears.

He had been looking at the wall clock while he deduced, wondering how long it would take John to leave and report him to Lestrade. But things had not gone as planned and when Sherlock looked at the admiration on John's face, he knew that this one would stay longer than the last boy.

John obviously found Sherlock fascinating like many others before him. The only difference was, Sherlock found him fascinating as well.

This was what both mystified and infuriated Sherlock as John Watson was just your typical teenage boy. But at the same time there was something about him that made him unique. Physically he was average. He was not ugly, oh no, he was far from that, but he was not the kind of person you'd immediately spot in a crowd. He was approximately six inches shorter than Sherlock and his short, dishwater blond hair and dark blue eyes were common in this area. He had a weird nose as well, not appalling, mind you, just strange. It turned red easily when the temperature dropped and Sherlock would be strongly reminded of a cherry tomato or that reindeer people kept singing about during the holidays. He had even been tempted to poke it, but he fought off the urge as a voice in the back of his mind had warned him that that would be an invasion of personal space. Another thing was his ears which stuck out slightly. The voice in the back of his mind had not told him not to touch them so Sherlock had gotten yelled at, especially since he'd pulled on John's ears during his sleep. He had pulled a little hard too as they had turned red from the force of it.

When it came to clothes, John favored lumpy jumpers that were not at all flattering. He would wear them all the time when they were not in uniform, and once, to Sherlock's horror, had worn a jumper with creepy black cats on the front, all of them following Sherlock with their woolly blue eyes. Sherlock had 'borrowed' three to mop up an experiment that had gotten out of hand. The cat jumper had been the first to go, right after Sherlock who was far from a cat lover (he thought them all disturbing which was strange coming from someone who touched human brains with his bare hands on a regular basis) had torn it to shreds. John had not been pleased. They had fought and it had ended with John's nose bleeding and Sherlock's skull being tossed out the window. Lucky for Sherlock, his violin had been under his bed the whole time.

Sherlock did not ask questions to get to know John, not like how John tried to get to know him. All Sherlock needed to do was watch. He knew John wanted to be a doctor. He owned many medical books, inherited, Sherlock guessed, and he did not look too disgusted whenever he found one of Sherlock's souvenirs from the morgue. Well, he did look disgusted but he didn't run away, not like how Evan Brody had after seeing that jar of eyeballs he'd snooped from the hospital his uncle owned. He played rugby which Sherlock had guessed from the build of his muscles and the scars on his knees. But he suffered from a shoulder injury which prevented him from joining the team. Sherlock had seen him popping painkillers in his mouth. His relationship with his family was good. Sherlock saw the pictures and souvenirs John had placed on his bedside table. With his sister, however, it was strained. The one picture John had of him and his sibling had been taken five years ago. And Sherlock had seen the girl wandering about in the courtyard, cigarette in hand while she ranted about schoolwork. She certainly did not look like the kind of person you'd see hanging around John.

John as a roommate was satisfying. While Sherlock's former roommates had complained or done their best to avoid him, John acted as if Sherlock's behavior were the most normal thing in the world. He brought Sherlock tea whenever he asked and he seemed genuinely concerned about Sherlock's health. "You're skin and bones," he'd once nagged, "You better eat something or you'll die in your sleep. If you even sleep."

Also, John did not whine about his need to play the violin at three in the morning, or at least, not after the first few nights. Sherlock knew he had nightmares. He had seen John thrashing in his sleep, muttering about guns and people hitting him. Sherlock's violin playing seemed to calm him down, especially if he played Canon in D. It was not that Sherlock was doing John a favor. It was only because he liked to play at night and John happened to sleep during the night as most human beings. And Canon in D was his favorite thing to play.

He watched, recorded these facts in his brain, then wrote them down whenever John was not in the room. No one knew about the book except for his family, and to Sherlock's knowledge, his mother and brother both thought he'd stopped using it years ago. He could never let anyone know. It was not just because of the profiles he'd made which he knew would infuriate people. It was also because he did not want anyone else to see the ones his father had done. Some time ago, a girl named Christa Montez had remarked that all Holmes were loons like him. He did not want people calling his father that. Sherlock was not easily provoked by insults directed to him or his family, but his father was uncharted territory.

It was one of his weaknesses.

What irritated Sherlock about John's profile was that there was always something new to add. The two-day deadline Sherlock had given himself had already passed and still, Sherlock was writing. This was not something he liked at all. It made him feel as if his standards had lowered.

Still, Sherlock had enough sense not to direct his frustration toward John. He was, well not pleasant, but he didn't try to scare him away anymore. Lestrade must have sensed this and told Mycroft because two weeks later, Sherlock's voicemail was filled with messages, all from his brother. "It seems you've found a match for yourself," his brother said, his posh voice filling Sherlock's head like poison. "Greg's happy no one's complaining to him anymore. I do hope you and your roommate are getting along. We wouldn't want another incident now, would we?"

Sherlock had replied via text with a simple "Piss off, you fat dousche" then proceeded to rid his voicemail of his brother. The incident, as Mycroft called it, happened in the middle of his first year in Banhart's. Sherlock had a single then, but that had not stopped him from befriending Victor Trevor, the kid who lived across his rom. Victor, like John, had found Sherlock's deductions fascinating, though he did not express his opinions openly. They had been a strange pair, both of them smart and calculating. They even looked a bit alike as Victor was only a few inches shorter than him and had the same white skin that looked as if it had never seen sunlight. The only differences in their personalities were Sherlock was rude while Victor was well-mannered. That was until parent's day when the students had to give their family a tour of the school. Right in the hall when they were having dinner, Victor had told his father loudly that he didn't like Sherlock one bit and he was only hanging out with him for a bet. Not only had he said it, but he'd said it in front of the whole school. And Mycroft and his mother had been there. It had hurt, hell, it had hurt more than his father's death or any of the insults he'd gotten, but Sherlock had been trained not to show it. He had merely glared at Victor and walked out, Mycroft trailing after him. They had not spoken to each other ever since.

Sherlock still saw Victor around. He had the same AP classes with him, and there were always events that required the students to be packed in one place. Victor would always look at him guiltily and sometimes, he would even give Sherlock a half-wave. Sherlock never returned it.

Everyone knew about it and Sherlock knew that John would eventually find out. He talked to Sally and Mike after all. It was the day he saw the pity in John's eyes that he knew John had finally found out. "Don't," he'd snapped, and John thankfully left him alone.

Sherlock hated it when people looked at him life that. He hated pity, he hated people thinking he was weak. The only person who could look at him like that was his mother and Sherlock only tolerated it out of respect. He did not want people thinking he cried. The last time he had was during his father's funeral and even then he'd hated all those people looking at him and hugging him, telling him lies that things would be alright. And if he'd cried alone after that it was only because he'd been frustrated with himself. It wasn't because he'd been lonely.

He was cleaning his skull (John had joked that this was the only thing Sherlock cleaned which Sherlock did not find funny at all as John was merely stating a fact) when John, who was lying in bed with a copy of "The Little Prince" placed over his face, told him, "You know, I'm not tricking you or anything into thinking I'm the good guy. Because I am, I mean, I'm not hanging out with you because someone told me to."

The rag which was really a sleeve torn from one of John's jumpers hovered a few inches over the cranium. Sherlock looked at him, wondering if John was trying to get killed by bring that up. It didn't work though as John had a book on his face. Sherlock pursed his lips and continued to clean, doing his best to ignore his roommate.

"Okay, well, we don't hang out, not really. But I'm not acting like your friend in here because of a dumb bet. It's because I want to."

"I don't have friends."

"Roommate, then. A roommate who doesn't ignore you or call a mental ward because you drive a lot of people crazy with your antics." His voice was muffled but the words reached Sherlock clearly. "You're weird act, I've seen some of it before. I've been to a lot of places, remember?"

"John, I admit that you are one of the few people in this world whose presence I can tolerate for a long period of time, but if you do not close your mouth, my opinion of you will change. Now go make yourself useful and go get me a copy of the school paper."

John sighed, exasperated. He sat up and the book slid off his face and fell on the floor. It opened to a page with an illustration of the pilot and the little prince talking for the first time. Sherlock did not like that book very much. He hadn't understood it fully.

"Why do you always make me go get it?"

"You're going to read it anyway and you're going to analyze it. I've read the essays you've done for Lit class and I must say you're a fairly good writer even though you won't admit it because you're too shy. Donovan has already been pressuring you to join but you're doubting it because you want to be part of the rugby team only the thing is you have a shoulder injury which will prevent you from playing your sport this year. So you're just going to join next year and you'll take Donovan's offer because I can see it in your face, John. Now, go get me a copy."

John groaned but relented. Fifteen minutes later, he came back and tossed the paper to Sherlock who caught it with his right hand. He set his skull down gingerly. He skipped the articles about the happenings within the school and jumped to the ones happening outside it.

"Another student overdose," John read out loud. He had moved to Sherlock's bed, complaining that since he got it, he should get to read it first. "Prep school kid again. That's five this month."

A picture of the girl who'd died was at the left of the article. She beamed at them through a mouthful of braces, her smile awkward but endearing. She was only thirteen-years-old.

"You think there's any of those drugs in Banhart's?" John asked, taking the paper from him. There was a note of worry in his voice which Sherlock guessed was because he was thinking of his sister.

"Not yet." Sherlock placed his hands beneath his chin, thinking. Five kids dead. The first one was up north and the last one was only in Bristol. It would only be a matter of time before a Banhart's student dropped dead on the spot.

* * *

**JOHN**

One month and seventeen days later, no one was still dead. This was a good thing but Sherlock did not find it so. He'd become rather obsessed with finding out about the drug and spent all his free time doing research. His experiments had become more dangerous, to the point that Sherlock insisted John wear a gas mask before he enter the room. Sherlock had given him the kind they'd used in the war. John had woken up to find it over his head and Sherlock wearing the same thing, looking not unlike a giant fly. It drove John insane. If he weren't a member of the school paper, he wouldn't have a place to hang out where it didn't smell like dead rat.

Their office was a miniature version of the common room, only with photocopy machines, printers, and a whiteboard where Sarah, their editor-in-chief, wrote down their list of things to do. John was glad they could go here whenever they wanted to. Mike had already commented on his clothes smelling like formaldehyde.

Right now Sarah was the only person in the office with him. John was sitting in the sofa while Sarah sat opposite him in a green armchair. She had a cup of coffee balanced in her hands and her legs were tucked beneath her. She was laughing at something John had said and for a moment, John's chest swelled with pride. He had made a pretty girl laugh. An older, pretty girl. His head swam with the possibilities.

Of course, Sherlock had to ruin the moment.

Students who weren't members of the school paper weren't allowed inside the office, but as Sherlock had no respect for the rules, he entered whenever he pleased. He had a huge smile on his face which John had not seen since he read about Deborah Ivey's overdose. "Another one, John!" he was yelling, his excitement palpable. "Another overdose! God, it's Christmas come early!"

John tried to ignore the look of pure horror on Sarah's face. "It's not decent to be happy about death, Sherlock," John chastised. He stood up and tried to calm him down but Sherlock was already moving away.

"Oh, who cares about decency?" he poured the remaining coffee in one of the striped mugs on the counter then added two sugars in it. "I told you, John, that it's moving closer. The boy who died went to a school in Surrey."

"God, you really want someone to die, don't you?" John hissed, lowering his voice for Sarah's sake. She could feel her watching them curiously. "Just leave it to the police, they'll solve it."

"Six kids dead in two months? I highly doubt they have any lead. Listen, they found the wrappers of the drugs near the body and they were arranged to make the number 132. It's a game, don't you understand, John? A chase."

"132? What's that mean?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

Sherlock's eyes were shining, the way a kid's would when seeing a brand new toy. John bit his lip. An obsessed Sherlock, John had learned quickly, was a very bad thing for both him and the people around him.

Sherlock's reverie was broken when the rest of the staff poured in. Anderson, the boy who wrote for the sports section, paused. "Oi," he cried, "What's the freak doing here?"

"What's a great idiot like you doing in school?" Sherlock shot back. John hid his grin. He didn't like Anderson much either. The boy was mean, stupid, and a big show-off. According to Sherlock, he and Anderson had hated each other the moment they met.

Anderson turned to Sarah. "He's not even supposed to be here. Get him out."

"He's not doing any harm," Sarah replied carefully. They watched as Sherlock took a seat in front of the computer. "Sherlock, no, you can't use that."

"This one's not used frequently. Keys are still stiff and there are no documents save for a video file that I assume is a pornographic movie. Oh yes, I'm correct once again."

John thought his ribs were about to break from trying to keep from laughing. Sherlock had clicked the file. Everyone got a view of two blonds getting it on in a hot tub. "Sherlock!" Sarah cried shrilly. "Turn that off and get out!"

"Anderson seems to like it…Oh wait, he only gets off on dinosaurs."

John sensed the impending danger immediately. He closed the file and deleted it then told Sherlock to run off, gently. "I'll let you examine my scar again if you go," he promised, wincing inwardly. Sherlock had asked John if he could see the scar on his shoulder a few days ago for his study on human tissues. When he'd said 'see' John had assumed he was just going to look at it. But the other boy had prodded it repeatedly with a the blunt edge of a scalpel, trying to find out if it hurt in just one area or if there was a part in the middle that didn't hurt at all. John's screaming had answered his questions, but Sherlock still wasn't satisfied.

The other boy gave him what John guessed was a smile then walked out of the room. "You've managed to tame him," Sally said as she sat down in front of the computer Sherlock had vacated. "I don't think he's listened to anyone else other than Vic. Isn't that right?" She turned to where Victor was. John kept forgetting that he was also a member of the school paper. He was just a photographer and didn't come in as frequently. Sherlock must not have noticed him. No, that was wrong, Sherlock always noticed things. Perhaps he'd just ignored him.

Victor looked up from his camera and shrugged. He really was like Sherlock, a nicer, happier version, anyway. John knew he should hate him or at least dislike him a little because of what he'd done, but the thing was Victor was highly likeable. It was like he had the ability to make everyone around him love him.

"I don't want to talk about that."

"You broke up with him."

"We weren't going out."

Right, really like Sherlock. Victor seemed asexual as well. John did not know who was creepier. Victor who always got people to feel comfortable around him even without doing anything, or Sherlock who always got people to feel uncomfortable around him even without doing anything.

No, Sherlock was definitely creepier. He dissected brains for goodness sake.

"You going to do the same to him, John?" Anderson quipped.

John glared at him. "Shut up," he hissed."I'm not that kind of jerk." He flushed when he realized what he was implying. There were hoots and cheers from the other staff. Victor was looking at him curiously.

"That's enough," Sarah snapped, getting up from her seat. "You can go spread rumors later, right now we have things to talk about." She then moved to the whiteboard. Students groaned as they took their seats, only half of whom were actually listening to what Sarah was saying. John did his best go get lost in the meeting but it wouldn't work. He had a nagging suspicion that Victor was watching him.

This was correct and John was able to prove that because right as they were about to leave, Victor grabbed his arm and forced him to turn around. John had to look up to meet his eyes. He felt insecure about his height once more. Damn these tall prep school kids.

"I had my reasons, you know," Victor told him. He didn't relinquish his hold on John. "I had to do it."

John scoffed. "Yeah. Right."

"What's he on about now? Why does he look so happy?"

"Victor, I don't have to tell you. Just apologize or something if you want to be friends again."

"I don't want to be friends again."

Mentally, John saw himself punching Victor on the nose. "You two are really weird. You know that, right?"

"John." He seemed to be almost pleading. "Please?"

John could come up with a hundred reasons why he should just ignore Victor. He wasn't friends with him for one thing and he'd embarrassed Sherlock in front of a great number of people. But the thing about Trevors and Holmeses were that they could always, always make you talk with just one look in their eyes. John had fallen victim to Sherlock's 'kicked puppy eyes' many times already, a trick he used whenever he wanted someone to do what he wanted. And to John's horror, Victor knew this as well. This must have been some kind of code the two had developed when they were younger.

John's tongue was loosening. "Alright, alright!" he groaned. "You know that drug that's been killing those prep school kids? Sherlock thinks it will reach Banhart's and he's doing his research—hey where are you going?"

The other thing about Trevors and Holmeses was they would always, always leave you confused.

* * *

**SHERLOCK**

The rooftop was out of bounds to students but because Sherlock had no respect for authority, he spent a lot of his time there. The door had been locked with heavy chains but they were no match for Sherlock's skill in picking locks. Now the chains were in a pile at the side of the door, right next to a broken chair which was surrounded by boxes that had once held nicotine patches. The litter had once been cigarette butts but after Mycroft had threatened to gut him for smoking, Sherlock had replaced it with the boxes. The rooftop was his sanctuary, the one place Sherlock bothered to take care of. He didn't do any of his experiments here. What he did do was play his violin and look at the world below.

He knew who it was even before the door slammed open. There was only one person who knew that the rooftop had been unchained. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited until he was sure Victor was close enough.

"John told you, didn't he?" This was the first thing he had to say to Victor since freshman year. And John's name was included in the sentence. How odd.

He heard Victor moving. Then he sat down, only a few inches away from Sherlock.

"He did."

"You know something."

"You're stating the obvious."

Sherlock sniffed. "I've been with idiots."

"John's not an idiot."

"No, not as much as Anderson, at least."

Victor laughed and Sherlock felt himself begin to smile. He stopped himself. "You're involved. No, wait. That's stupid. Why would you suddenly come here if you are? Someone close to you, then, someone you're protecting. Who is it?"

There was a moment of silence. Victor was one of the few people Sherlock could not read fully but he knew him well enough to sense that he was uncomfortable. "My brother," he said, finally. He sighed. "I know a bit but not enough and knowing you Sherlock…it's best if you don't get into it."

Vincent, Victor's twin. Sherlock had seen Vincent only twice as he went to a different boarding school, but he knew that Vincent was like Harry Watson's male counterpart.

"You were acting strangely. Is that why…"

"The bet? There was no bet."

Sherlock licked his lips. "It's been going on for three years."

"It was just a plan three years ago. I have no idea what it's for but my brother's making money off it."

"You're protecting him, then. You knew I would find out about it that time when we were in the hall. Your brother was there, you were nervous, I was looking for someone to deduce. And your brother was the closest suspect."

"Yes." Victor paused. "You'd do the same."

Sherlock thought of Mycroft but he could not associate his brother with drug dealing. He shrugged.

"You would. You're not as heartless as you let people think you are."

_No. I _am_ heartless._

"You do know that I'm not going to stop researching about this. You know me too well."

"You're not going to keep Vincent out of it, are you?"

"Victor, you're stating the obvious."

They glared at each other. Sherlock was angry because he had been tricked all these years. Victor was angry because he wasn't going to keep that promise. "You shouldn't have told me your brother was involved," Sherlock finally said.

"You'll find out eventually and I couldn't decide, alright?" he snapped. "If you didn't have anything to lead you, you'll just be reckless and get yourself killed. Remember when you sneaked out to catch the janitor that was spying on the girls when they were changing? He beat you up and if I hadn't followed you, he could have done some major damage. And of course I want to protect my brother. Family is important. Friends are important."

"Thought you said we weren't friends?"

"We're not." Victor rubbed his face. He was wound up and in that moment, Sherlock could see how stressed he was. There were bags under his eyes. "But I know you, Sherlock, and like it or not, I really do care what happens to you."

"That's your weakness there. Caring."

"Your weakness is you're too rash. I know you don't like it but the thing is you don't work well alone. I won't help you. I only came here to ask if you can leave my brother out of it when you finally get there."

Sherlock laughed. "You're talking about John, aren't you? He's not like you and he's not like me, Victor."

"Opposites are a good thing."

Victor stood up. "What makes you think I can even solve it?" Sherlock asked. "This is a big thing, it's not like the ones we solved when we were kids. John reckons I should leave it to the police."

"As if you'll actually follow that suggestion. Besides, you're Sherlock Holmes. It'll be unheard of it you can't solve it."

He was walking away already. Sherlock called his name and Victor stopped, one foot away from the door. "132," he asked, "Got any idea what that means?"

"A code? Part of a license plate? I don't know."

He could see him holding something in his pocket, waiting for Sherlock to notice it. "What's your evidence?"

"In exchange for my brother's protection."

Sherlock weighed it. Lose the closest thing to a suspect, in exchange for hard evidence. But then again, Vincent Trevor might not even know who the supplier was. Sherlock had read some of the files in Mycroft's office, some of which were about people who'd stolen drugs from the government for trade. These people worked in systems. No doubt Vincent's position was high as he already knew about it three years ago...but not high enough. Intellectually, he was only average. You didn't trust an average person with something as deadly as that. "Fine."

"A fox." He pulled out something from his pocket and tossed it to Sherlock. It was a small plastic toy, the kind you'd see in Noah's ark sets. Sherlock felt a little disappointed. This was the evidence? You could find this in every toy store in Britain. "It's a duplicate. I found the original in Vincent's pocket the last time we were home."

And then Victor smiled at him and Sherlock was reminded of the first time he'd ever met him, of the feeling that he was actually normal enough to make one friend, the feeling of acceptance. Sherlock returned it. No, they would never be friends, at least, not like before. But they knew each other well and that was enough for Sherlock.

John was studying when he returned. The fox was shoved deep inside his pocket. He could feel it poking into his thigh.

"Oh, Jesus," John muttered when he saw Sherlock enter and grab his magnifying lens. "Yeah, I remember the promise I made. Just don't poke so hard."

"I should be disturbed that you're quite willing to take your shirt off for me."

John flushed as Sherlock knew he would. "Oh, shut up. I keep my promises, remember? Be thankful I'm even letting you do this."

"_Your weakness is you're too rash. I know you don't like it but the thing is you don't work well alone."_

No. Sherlock had to admit, he worked better if there was someone there to guide him.

John braced himself and Sherlock laughed. John? What was Victor thinking? This was John Watson, the boy who looked and acted like he'd never hurt a fly. When the time came, perhaps, but Sherlock knew it would be best if he worked on this alone for a while.

* * *

**NOTES: And here I introduced to you two objects that are of great importance in the story, the toy fox (I'm sure you already know who's associated with this) and Sherlock's book. They'll appear in later chapters but not very often as the first part of this story will focus mainly on Sherlock and John's school life. **


	3. Assassin

**Notes: So I was watching The Walking Dead and for some reason, I thought of hunting and well, I applied it to this chapter. Nothing gruesome! (Not yet, anyway ****) Hope you enjoy.**

**JOHN**

To John's surprise and relief, Sherlock's interest in drug 132 began to fade in the next few weeks/ He had no idea why, but he guessed that this might have just been because there were no more deaths. The first week after Wyatt Zekeman overdosed, Sherlock had behaved strangely, even for him. He had been full of anger which he did not unleash, something that was even more dangerous than any of the tantrums John had witnessed. John had spent three nights in Mike's room in fear of Sherlock blowing up theirs with an experiment that could match his feelings. Thankfully, he hadn't done any damage apart from spilling a dark red liquid ("That's not blood") all over John's bed sheets. Sherlock had replaced it as well by shoving more of the amount needed to buy new covers into John's hands. John knew that Sherlock had absolutely no idea how much sheets cost. He had given him enough to buy a double bed.

"Keep it if you want," Sherlock had said when John returned the wad. "It's not mine, anyway. It's my brother's."

"You're brother's quite generous."

"Oh yes, especially when he doesn't know it."

Sherlock had a lot of his brother's things inside his wallet (John had borrowed it so he could get Sherlock his coffee and Sherlock had been too busy to give him some change himself). There were two credit cards, a business card, something that looked very official and out of place in a sixteen-year-old's hands, a bit of his hair secured by an orange rubber band ("To get into those highly-secured rooms in his workplace and no, he doesn't know about it"), and some bakeshop coupons. There were other things inside Sherlock's wallet beside those of his brother. John had learned that Sherlock was a bit of a kleptomaniac. Fortunately, he seldom stole things that were of great importance (well, when they were not his brother's) or when he did, he would return it before the person missed it.

John had the wallet with him now, in fact. It was not because Sherlock had given it to him, but because he had deliberately left it in their room. John had taken it, knowing that Sherlock would want him to buy something later. He often left his wallet in their room so Jon usually used his own money to buy whatever it was Sherlock wanted just to keep him from poking John's head repeatedly while saying 'bored'. And the bad thing was, Sherlock often forgot to pay him back, or when he did, he always gave him too much. It was one of the many irritating things about him.

He didn't have to worry about Sherlock asking for money now, though. They were currently in the assembly hall with the other students. Though nearly all of the student body was present, the hall was still big enough to accommodate them and more. They had been called here at seven-thirty. Fifteen minutes later and there was still no one announcing whatever it was that needed to be said. The students, many of whom had been asleep only moments ago, were now growing restless. They were making so much noise that the very walls seemed to shake with their voices. This was a bad thing for John and some of the other juniors who were busy studying for a test. John was seated at the very back, trying to drown out the noise by keeping his legs tucked to his chest and his nose nearly buried in the notebook he'd borrowed from Mike.

"Obdormio?" John asked as he tried to understand Mike's handwriting. Next to him, Davis grunted. His face crumpled as he though then relaxed again after a minute.

"Don't know," he answered. "What the fuck's that even mean?"

"Uh, wait, I can't understand Mike's writing. I think it says 'to fall asleep'. How about 'peturpis'?"

Davis shook his head. John looked down and searched for the meaning of the word but couldn't find it anywhere. Mike must have forgotten to put it.

Latin. Fucking Latin. They weren't even supposed to be studying Latin but since Veronica Thompson got smart with Mr. Salter, their teacher for Lit class, he decided that instead of using words you'd find in an Oxford dictionary for their vocab test, they replace it with a long list of Latin words John had never heard of. John, who was the best student in this class and knew the basic of several languages, couldn't help but think he'd like to tear Veronica Thompson to shreds. He was positive he was going to fail this test, and John didn't think he could bear it if he got a big red F, especially coming from Mr. Salter who never failed to praise John at the start of each period.

"Perturpis." John tapped his pencil against his temple. Sherlock had told him he did this whenever he was processing information. "Perturpis…This is crap! I'm going to fail this test! Sherlock?"

As expected, Davis emitted a low groan that John waved off. None of his friends like Sherlock but as John was nice to him, they tolerated his presence, albeit grudgingly. He looked over his shoulder to where he knew Sherlock was seated. He had received another warning from the vice principal because he never attended any of these meetings. To show his indignation at having to attend something so pointless, Sherlock had refused to dress in his uniform. Instead, he was wearing John's spare bed sheet to cover his skinny frame. He'd attracted quite a lot of attention on his way to the assembly hall and it was only a matter of time before a teacher noticed this public display of indecency.

"Sherlock?" he called again. His roommate was staring at the ceiling, his pale throat exposed to the world, but at the sound of his name he looked at John with bleary eyes. He hadn't had a wink of sleep since Tuesday. "What's 'perturpis' mean again?"

"Very disgraceful," Sherlock answered without missing a beat. Sherlock was fluent in about twenty languages, something that made John very insecure as he was the one who was supposed to speak in various tongues due to having travelled a lot. But Sherlock beat him and John doubted he'd been anywhere outside of Europe.

Sherlock yawned and stretched, looking for all the world like a big cat (best not mention that to him). John's eyes fell on his stork legs which were sticking out from the sheet. "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

"…oh."

Then they were laughing. John thought it ridiculous. This boy genius who was known to have an IQ even greater than Einstein was sitting practically butt naked in a room full of people. Davis had to call his attention so John could continue asking him.

Five minutes later, John noticed that the noise had begun to diminish. He looked up to see Warren Peterson, the head boy, swagger up to the microphone at the front, followed closely by his female counterpart, Hannah Green. Sounds of relief were heard everywhere. John tucked Mike's notebook under his arm and set himself to listening.

Peterson was the only one who was going to do the talking. It was usually him, with Hannah nodding in the background, occasionally adding a few words to Peterson's speech.

"Wake up, bitches," Peterson sang. The teachers looked at him disapprovingly but did nothing as they were drowned by cheers. John saw Lestrade frown.

"I'm pretty sure you're all wondering why you kids are all here since no one's dead ("Peterson!" Lestrade warned) and it isn't my birthday. Well, here's what—oh, hello." Everyone looked to where Peterson was staring. A burly senior in front had stood up. To John's surprise, he whipped out a gun. His breath caught in his throat and the memory of those people mugging him flashed in his mind. A few kids shrieked and ran away. John's heart which had been beating quickly when he caught sight of the gun began to slow down when he saw that the majority of the people in the room were yelling excitedly.

The senior pulled the trigger. It hit Peterson square in the chest but instead of spurting blood, something blue began to spread on the front of his uniform. "Giles, is this paint? Jesus!" Peterson screamed as he hastily tore of his blazer. He waited for the commotion to die down before he said, "Now, I'm pretty sure all of you except the freshmen knows what this means! Yup, that's right, we're going to have our annual game of Assassin early!"

People stamped their feet. Lestrade was telling teachers to stop them from making too much noise.

"Okay, the rules of Assassin are simple. You each get the name of the person you're going to assassinate. Then when you assassinate that person, he has to give you the name of his kill. And so on until the game's over. The only problem is, we almost never have one winner of the game, and I'm sure it becomes tiring when there's only two left and they haven't blown each other up ("Peterson!"). So you have only two weeks to play which will guarantee there will be about five winners." He smiled then focused his eyes to where Sherlock was seated, glaring. "We all know that little Sherlock's going to be part of that number, right darling?"

Sherlock said nothing. Lestrade who finally noticed him was beside himself. "Jesus, Sherlock, put on your clothes!" he cried, chasing after John's roommate who had run off, clinging his sheet to his body. John remembered that Sherlock's wallet was still with him. Then again, it was not as if Sherlock had any pockets to put his wallet in.

Students shuffled outside, talking excitedly as they went to their first period classes. "There's a bet going on," Mike said as he joined hem. John saw his girlfriend wave goodbye at him before she joined Molly Hooper.

"What bet?" John asked as he extracted himself from Mike's headlock.

"The person who gets to assassinate Sherlock gets five hundred quid."

John nearly choked on his own spit. "F-five hundred?" he gasped. "Where'd you get that kind of money?"

"Well, we collected the money after last year's game. He's the only one who's never been killed before, you see. Look, there are only five people who are hard to kill. Not impossible, okay? Just hard. There's Victor Trevor, Sebastian Wilkes, Yuki Jackson, Theo Bienvenu, and Quentin Grant. But they've all been assassinated at some point."

"If we do assassinate Sherlock, can we do it for real?" Davis drawled. John glared at him. "I'm just kidding."

Assassin was all people could talk about. Not even the threat of failing Mr. Salter's test could dampen their moods. John did his best to concentrate on his test, then ran out the door as soon as he was finished. The game would begin when the names of their first kills arrived in the mail. Rumor had it the game would begin after lunch.

There were a few people who were unwilling to play the game and surprisingly, Sherlock was one of them. "It's terribly easy, John," he said as they trudged down the mail room.

"So you don't shoot other people? You just wait until it's all over?"

"Of course not because if I didn't, I'd be terribly bored and people wouldn't leave me alone," Sherlock muttered irritably. "I let them kill each other first then move only when people start to annoy me even more than they usually do."

"You mean Grant and the others? I heard Davis say that they're usually the ones who get your name."

"Yes. I did enjoy seeing the shock in Wilkes' face last year. He fell facedown in the fountain when I shot him with a water gun of my own creation. He broke his nose as well, though I must say that it was his own fault. The idiot had been walking around with his shoes untied all morning. Lestrade didn't leave me alone for weeks, however. I had to apologize."

He then made a face as if Lestrade had forced him to eat slugs.

John's first kill was a freshman named Nikael Saldivar. Along with the paper came a water gun, very fake in appearance compared to the one Giles Mathews had used to shoot Peterson. Inside it was a blue liquid that Sally explained was invisible ink. "It fades after a few minutes," she said.

John had felt queasy about the game at first. After all, he'd been shot by a real gun. The pain in his shoulder had lessened considerably but it was still there like a nagging itch, reminding John about that night.

Still, he wasn't going to act like a sitting duck. No sooner had he received his kill that he saw people shooting at each other. The idea of someone aiming a gun at him, even a fake one made him afraid even though he'd told himself a million times that his fear was irrational. Telling himself that never worked, though, and he knew that it was better if he get them before they did him.

Nikael had been easy enough to assassinate. But John had still felt uncomfortable when he shot at her because she had suddenly burst into tears. John had to wait for a while before she could calm down enough to give him Dennis Lee's name.

John couldn't kill his targets as quickly as possible. Their teachers disapproved of the tradition wholeheartedly and seemed to have made a mutual decision to pile them with as much homework as possible to keep them from thinking too much about Assassin. "One boy crashed into me four years ago," Mrs. Hudson had told John when she handed them their music sheets. "Bad luck for my hip, ain't that right, Sherlock, love?"

Sherlock had replied by bringing down the bow and making his violin groan like a dying seal.

"If I could, I'd get rid of it, but it's tradition and it will stick forever," Lestrade told John. The vice principal had become quite familiar with John as e was often in their dorm, persuading Sherlock to bathe, eat, or attend his classes. John had realized early on that Lestrade was a father figure to Sherlock. He was good friends with Mycroft, after all, and as Sherlock loathed his brother, Lestrade was the next best thing. John had just assumed Sherlock no longer had a father and everyone knew that Lestrade didn't have any children of his own.

"You could get rid of it but you're afraid of Carter," Sherlock replied, peering at them form under his blanket. He had his skull in his hands. What, John thought, had he been doing with that disturbing skull under his blanket?

"I am not afraid of Carter. Now get up! When was the last time you washed yourself? You smell like blood!"

"Experiment."

"Get up!"

"Bathroom's too far away and I'm tired," Sherlock moaned. He raised his arms, his look demanding. "Carry me if you must."

John then watched as Lestrade grudgingly grabbed Sherlock's legs, heaved him over his shoulder, then tossed him, fully-clothed, in the shower stall.

Often, John wondered who Sherlock's kill was. He hadn't seen him on the move so far which was a shame as Molly had told him Sherlock did exceptionally well whenever he hunted for his target. John was not sure if this was biased, but as Sherlock was a master of surprise, John just assumed that this was the truth.

When he was not thinking of Sherlock's kill, John thought of whoever it was that carried his name in their pocket. Was it a boy, a girl? A freshman, a senior? The possibilities were endless. Fifty students had already been killed in the first twenty-four hours but there were still so many of them left in the game.

Dennis Lee died on Thursday. Hannah Green and Chelsea Roberts the next day. And after that, John brought down Theo Bienvenu.

Theo Beinvenu was a French-Vietnamese senior who was considered to be the most good-looking boy in school (John did not think so but then again he was not a hormonally induced teenage girl, and he definitely wasn't Peterson who fucked anything with a dick and a pulse). He smoked pot a lot which John had been able to detect in his breath when the other boy handed him the name in his pocket. John guessed that the only reason why Theo had been so hard to kill was because girls loved him so much and boys didn't want to mess their reputation by 'killing' every girl's dream date.

Luckily, Theo did not seemed perturbed by his loss. "You're shot iz very good," Theo had said, his accent so thick it garbled his words. His right hand was repeatedly rubbing away at a blue stain on his shirt which was spreading over his stomach.

"He is a good shot, isn't he, Theo?" John turned around to see Sherlock leaning against the wall, looking at him with…was that admiration?

Theo's face lit up. "Ah, Sherlock!" he exclaimed, obviously pleased to see John's roommate. Coming from him, Sherlock sounded like "Zherlook".

:Comment allez-vous?"

"Tres bien, merci."

They then talked in French, a language John was not so fluent in. He only caught the words 'thanks' and 'happy to see you' before the conversation was stopped abruptly by a gaggle of Theo's admirers, some of whom waved at Sherlock as well.

"I have a pleasant relationship with many foreign exchange students as I'm often the only one who understands them," Sherlock explained when John asked him if he was friends with Theo. "Theo Bienvenu who has not come home to France since he arrived here four years ago misses talking in his native tongue which is why he always comes to me."

"Oh. Well, that's good. You're actually interacting with people."

"I'm only pleasant to them because they are fascinating to deduce. People behave in a certain way according to the culture they've grown up in."

"And now you're you again." They passed a window where John saw it was already getting dark. It was Friday night. Students were permitted to leave the campus and explore the city during this time. Usually, he spent if with Mike and Davis, had nothing to do. Mike was on a date and Davis was being tutored in Math by Patricia Giansborough. John wished he'd had the guts to ask Sarah out, even for this one night, just so he would have something to do. It was not that he was in love her. She was just funny and sweet. And beautiful, of course.

Playing the game was not an option. There was no use hunting tonight as most students had their minds on dates and going to the movies.

John followed Sherlock to their dorm but was surprised when he saw that Sherlock was moving away. "Where are you going?" John asked as Sherlock joined the rabble going down the stairs.

"Dinner with my brother," Sherlock muttered, obviously annoyed with this. "It is something I would rather not through but as my brother does not make vain threats, I am compelled to go." He huffed. John nodded and was about to turn away when Sherlock suddenly said, "John, join me. I'd rather not go through it without a distraction from my brother's fat face."

John thought of a hundred reasons why he shouldn't. But then again, he had nothing better to do and it was better than staying in their room which still smelled faintly of rotten eggs. Also, John always wondered whether Mycroft was just as insane as Sherlock. Or worse.

It was always quite a shock when you left the campus. John had gotten used to seeing grass and trees so stepping on the dirty pavement of London was a bit jarring. "Is it far?" John asked, stepping aside to let by a group of sophomores.

"We need not walk." Sherlock seemed even more annoyed. John did a double take when he saw the black limousine waiting for them. A young woman whose eyes never left her phone greeted them briskly. Sherlock slid in and John followed suit.

"I'll inform your brother that your friend has decided to join," the woman, Anthea, said. She paused her typing long enough to look at John.

"Do inform my brother that if he goes too far this time, I'll wring his neck. I do believe my hands are large enough to accommodate his fleshy throat."

"Will do, Mr. Holmes."

They drove for a while. John was enjoying himself thoroughly while Sherlock's mood soured. It became even worse when they finally slowed to a halt.

"Angelo's?" Sherlock said, almost yelling. He crossed his arms. "That's it, I'm not getting out."

"Don't be a baby, Sherlock," John told him, feeling a little embarrassed for Anthea who was waiting for Sherlock to get out. "Come on."

Sherlock scowled at him for a moment but finally stuck his long legs out of the car. He shoved his hands deep inside his coat as he trudged up the steps of the restaurant.

It was small but fancy. There was no one in sight but there were a bunch of balloons, a table piled high with gifts, and a giant butter-yellow cake sitting on the counter. John was just thinking of the word 'birthday' when a fat, jolly-looking man stepped out of the door at the end of the room and enveloped Sherlock in a bone-crushing hug. John winced and thought of painful it must have been.

"Long time no see, Sherlock," the man said. "Seems like yesterday you were just that little boy who liked to steal butcher knives from my kitchen."

"Put me down, Angelo."

"And who's this?" Angelo grinned at John. He returned it weakly then gasped when Angelo engulfed him a bone-crushing hug as well.

"Put down John, Angelo," Sherlock said, sounding exasperated.

"Well, if I'd known you were brining a date I'd have made things more romantic."

John flushed. Date? "I-I'm not his date," he stammered, going even redder when Angelo guffawed then nudged him in the ribs.

Sherlock said nothing to confirm this. He was busy glaring at someone at the back. John noticed that Lestrade, his wife, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft had joined them.

John had seen Mycroft Holmes before through his id pictures in Sherlock's wallet. Even in person, he did not look much like Sherlock. Mycroft was tall like him but he was pudgy and his brown hair lay flat on his head, a contrast to the windblown curls growing out Sherlock's scalp. A black umbrella hung from the crook of his elbow. It did not look like he was going to set it down any time soon.

"Sherlock," he greeted. There was no trace of warmth in his voice.

"Mycroft," Sherlock spat.

"I see you've brought your roommate."

"I see you've been cheating on your diet."

"Childish as ever, dear brother." Mycroft sniffed. "I'm afraid Mummy couldn't come. She has a charity event today."

"The less the better."

"Now be pleasant for once. You used to love your birthdays. I do remember your sixth when you insisted on a pirate-themed one. We even got someone to bring an alligator for your entertainment. Of course, you could have kept him if you hadn't—"

"That's enough," Sherlock muttered sharply. John looked at him. "What?"

"It's _your _birthday? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Birthdays have become irrelevant to my brother," Mycroft said to John as Lestrade and his wife greeted Sherlock. "Still, I am surprised he actually invited someone over. He's never done that before, not even when he was a boy."

"John! What a pleasant surprise!" Mrs. Hudson cried ,running over to hug him. "I had no idea you and Sherlock were going steady."

"We're not—why does everyone think that?"

The only person who wasn't enjoying the party was the celebrator himself. John ate the most delicious meal he'd ever had and even had a slice of cake. Mycroft sat quietly in the background and watched as his brother opened his gifts, a murderous expression on his face. There were testtubes and scalpels and what appeared to be small vials filled with chemicals that John knew they would never handle in their chemistry class. Sherlock set them aside and forced a thank you.

"You should have told me, you know," John said when the adults had started drinking. He and Sherlock had been allowed a few but not enough to get them drunk. Lestrade wouldn't allow them to enter Banhart's like that, which was ironic since the vice principal himself was beginning to lose his sobriety.

'I didn't even get you a gift and I'm eating your cake." John looked at his hands. Icing had gotten to it somehow. Hastily, he wiped it on the hem of his jumper.

"I don't need anything, John," Sherlock answered. He hadn't eaten anything except for the cake and only a bit of it.

"Well, it's the thought that counts." He looked at his watch. "Listen, it's not too late. You want to skip? I'll get you something along the way."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Again, John, you need not buy me a gift."

"You want to stay here, then?"

"No."

"Okay." John looked at the adults who were laughing at something that Sherlock had suspected was a silly anecdote about him when he was a child. Mycroft was fond of embarrassing him. Not unlike Harry.

"It's kind of rude to—"

"Nonsense." Sherlock turned to the others. "John and I are leaving," he said loudly. When Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock did something John had never thought he would do.

He grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close to him.

"John's getting me a gift," he explained before John could say anything on his behalf. "A very special one."

And to John's horror, Sherlock squeezed his butt.

John had no idea what it meant until Mrs. Hudson gave a small cry of 'oh' and Lestrade blanched then flushed then blanched again. Mycroft narrowed his eyes at John. For some reason, John felt as if he was slowly being ripped apart by that cold gaze.

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft began. It sounded as if he was doing his best to stay calm. "You are already seventeen-years-old but I do not permit you to engage in activities such as—"

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he walked out with John in tow.

Outside, John was spluttering. "Did you—You didn't—Sherlock, what the—what did you do? I'm not gay despite what everyone in that loony restaurant thinks!"

"No, but you do find me attractive because you, like many others, are quite shallow when it comes to physical attractiveness."

"What? Did you just compliment yourself and insult me at the same time? Okay, whatever, but why—"

"A small act of revenge. Mycroft keeps ignoring the fact that I hate parties such as this." He tightened his coat around him. "Where do you want to go?"

John paused. He did not know London very well. His grandparents lived in Surrey and John only remembered visiting London with them once or twice in his childhood. He, Mike, and Davis had watched a movie before but the exact location of the theater was unknown to him. And did he really want Sherlock to watch a movie with him? He'd be bored in seconds and would spend the rest of the time throwing popcorn at other viewers.

"Let's just walk around."

"Mundane."

"Deduce people if you want or something."

In the end, he wasn't able to buy Sherlock anything, but he was able to entertain him long enough for him not to openly insult a person. Several times Sherlock stopped to talk to a hobo. John had asked him how he knew all these people but Sherlock never gave him an answer.

"Fascinating," Sherlock said when they stopped in front of an eccentric bakeshop. John had heard of this place before and had seen several branches of it in different parts of the world, but the place never failed to give him the creeps. Instead of normal pastries, they sold bread that looked like body parts, usually mangled and bloody. "You can slip a real head in there and no one would notice," Sherlock continued, "well, except for me."

John who was beginning to feel queasy at the sight of the gore grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and pulled him away.

They hailed a cab and got back to school only fifteen minutes before curfew. A prefect ushered them to their dorm. "Hurry up," she hissed, "or I'll report you."

No one was still asleep but as people weren't allowed to roam the hallways during night, they met no one but a few prefects who told them to get back to their rooms. Sherlock ignored them all.

"So how's it feel? Being one step closer to eighteen?" John asked when he sat on his bed. He extracted a gnarled root (John had no idea what plant it was and was not determined to find out what) from his pillow and threw it to Sherlock's side of the room.

"I feel nothing," Sherlock answered. He picked up his violin.

"Forget I asked." John lifted a leg and began to pry off his shoe. He paused when he didn't hear any violin. Sherlock had the bow poised over the instrument but he was looking at John with a thoughtful, almost somber expression.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." The words sounded strange coming from him, but they did not sound forced, not like a while ago.

John stared at him. He wanted to ask why and what had made Sherlock crack, wanted to make another joke about Sherlock's unexpectedness. But the violin drowned out whatever it was he wanted to say, and by morning, Sherlock seemed to have forgotten about it.

The game continued after the weekend, and as Peterson had said, people were already beginning to get sick of it. There were less than ten of them left in the game and all of the five hard kills were gone. John still had no idea who Sherlock's target was and who currently had his name. And the person who had his was still a mystery to John.

The bet was still on, though. Boys kept rushing to each other's rooms, discussing tactics. It no longer mattered that there was only one person assigned to kill Sherlock. "We just want to see him beat," Giles Mathews told John when he passed by him in the library. "And five hundred quid is more than enough to share."

Sherlock did not seem to mind this. In fact, he even found it amusing. "I'm quite a catch, aren't I?" he said. They were walking to their calculus class and every now and then, people would stare at him anxiously.

"It's so ridiculous!" Sarah hissed when John entered the office and handed her the article about Assassin. He had worked with Victor Trevor with this one so John had done it quickly, wanting to be as far from Victor as possible. Thankfully, Victor seemed to think the same as he had not talked to John at all, not even when he showed him the photographs that would go with the article.

"I'm sorry," John said quickly, thinking that Sarah was referring to his horrible writing. "If you don't like it I can…"

"Oh, it's not you. You wrote it beautifully as always." John blushed. "It's just that people are so obsessed with that dumb bet. They're slacking off. Last I heard is that Malcolm Wesley has Sherlock's name and he's our layout artist. That boy hasn't submitted anything!"

Malcolm Wesley? John blinked. Malcolm Wesley was his target. He had gotten him after killing Vika Almqvist yesterday.

Five hundred quid. And Sherlock was his roommate. He didn't need the money, but still…Wouldn't that be something? John Watson, the first person to kick the unbeatable Sherlock Holmes out of the game.

"Hey, Sarah!"

Just his luck. Malcolm Wesley was entering the office with a few papers clutched in his hands. John did not even know he was doing it but seconds later, Malcolm was swearing and there was blue ink spreading all over his chest.

"Shite!" he cursed, glaring at John.

"Oh, John, not you too," Sarah muttered, looking disgusted. John grinned at her weakly.

Malcolm was absolutely furious with him and John felt guilty. Malcolm was a scholarship kid, one of the few, and he needed the five hundred quid more. But he calmed down soon enough and handed Sherlock's name.

"I wouldn't have gotten him anyway," Malcolm said.

He didn't tell anyone but Mike and Davis but word quickly spread. They all knew how good John was at the game, and every now and then someone would clap him on the shoulder and give him tips. "Don't go soft on him!" Sally warned. "I know you have a soft spot for the freak, but come on, John, people have been waiting to wipe that smug smile off his face for months."

"I'm not soft," he argued. "And stop calling Sherlock a freak."

Despite his arguments, he still found it hard to shoot Sherlock. He couldn't do it when they were alone without anyone else distracting Sherlock because he'd be able to deduce him immediately. So John waited for the right time, waited and waited until one day, Mike told him that there were only two people left in the game.

The Coke John had been drinking idly jumped back in the can. Davis thumped his back with a meaty hand. "What?" he choked.

"Two. You and Sherlock."

Two. Then that meant he was Sherlock's target. Had he been assigned to John since the beginning of the game? But why not end it? John thought of all the times he and Sherlock had been in the same room together. Why hadn't he killed John then? Was Sherlock actually going to let him win?

"Quite a record, isn't it Davis?" Mike was saying. "I mean, there hasn't been just two players in years. And there are still four days left before they officially call it off."

"You think Sherlock knows you're the only one left?"

"Of course Sherlock knows," John snapped. "That's not something he'll miss easily."

"So finish him off!"

Right. End it. But where was Sherlock? It was the weekend and while many students had decided to stay in school because of the workload, John had not seen Sherlock all morning which was odd as Sherlock was often trailing after John, telling him to entertain him. He was not in the labs either and Lestrade was out of town. It was not like Sherlock to go out the school as it was too tedious a task and it was very not likely that he would meet Mycroft again.

That birthday dinner had been enough of a nightmare for both John and Sherlock. He had been able to clear his name as Sherlock's boyfriend with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. John didn't meet Mycroft after Angelo's though so he probably still thought he and Sherlock were a thing. And while Sherlock obviously loathed Mycroft, it was clear to john that the older Holmes cared for his baby brother in his own twisted way. He was protective for one thing, and if he'd gotten it in his head that John had defiled Sherlock, thanks to that annoying implication Sherlock had fed him, well John would kill himself first before Mycroft Holmes skinned him alive.

So where was Sherlock? He definitely wasn't in their dorm. What was stranger still was that his beakers and Bunsen burner were missing. The skull as well. That had never happened before, or if it had, then never with John noticing. It was all so strange and he told this to both Mike and Davis.

"Let's go Sherlock hunting then," Mike said. "Judging from your observations, he can't be that far. The school's big but there are only so many places you can go without people."

"And we all know how good Sherlock is with people," Davis muttered, rolling his eyes.

So they searched. They went to classrooms, the library, the infirmary (where they were thrown out because they were disturbing the patients), and even the girl's dormitory (they only got in because Mike's girlfriend was a prefect). They even asked people questions about his whereabouts but they had not seen him. John didn't think they were lying. Sherlock wasn't exactly someone you'd willingly protect.

They were just leaving the tenth classroom when it suddenly dawned on John how stupid they were. "We've been looking at all the wrong places," he told them.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what's the one place inside the school that's forbidden to students? The one place where it's guaranteed no one will disturb you because they think you can't go there and even if you could, why would you when the common room's got everything?"

Mike and Davis exchanged blank looks.

"The rooftop!" John cried. "I should have figured that out a while ago. I mean, it's supposed to be locked, right? But knowing Sherlock, he'd have unchained that door years ago. And he likes high places. He's always climbing trees and that statue in the courtyard."

Grinning, they climbed up the steps that lead to the rooftop of the main building. John had never been up there before as it was supposed to banned for students and there really was no point in wasting your breath just to see a barred door. But as he had expected, John saw that the door was unchained. He put his finger to his lips to indicate silence then pushed the door open ever so slightly.

It creaked.

Mike and Davis both winced. John cringed. That was enough to wake the dead. Surely, Sherlock would have heard that.

But there was no point in not going forward anymore. John took his gun out of his pocket and flung the door open with all his might.

He was met with the feeling of something very wet and cold sliding down his skin.

Mike and Davis were cursing loudly. John wiped whatever it was that had gotten in his eyes. He froze when he saw the two blue things that were Mike and Davis.

"What?" Davis spluttered, spitting out blue. "What was that?"

John looked down at his hands which were as blue as berries then up. He saw a path of strings and wires that connected the top of the door and what appeared to be a small cannon with blue liquid steadily pouring out of the mouth. More wires sprung out from the back. John followed it with his eyes and saw that it went past the roof and connected with the kitchen roof next to it. John could just make out Sherlock standing there with his back to him, a smoking beaker in hand.

His phone buzzed. John pulled it out and was grateful to see that it hadn't gotten too wet. John flipped it open.

You lost –SH

"John?" Mike was repeatedly wiping at his face. The blue, John saw, was beginning to fade.

"I lost."

Sherlock's attack became legendary. John was repeatedly teased for it and had even had to suffer though Giles and Peterson showering him with blue confetti. People were quite disappointed to see that no one had won the bet, but they were pleased that the awarding ceremony was short as there was only one winner. Sherlock collected his prize money, a bag of sweets (which he threw away), and the additional gift from the alumni. It was a scarf, blue in color, and while he did not say it, John knew he liked it very much.

"This would be better suited to you," Sherlock teased as he wrapped it around his long neck.

"Oh shut up. You know you could have let me win. You didn't shoot me at once even though you could have. How come?"

"I just wanted to see how far you could go and you exceeded my expectations."

"So you really wouldn't have left me win?"

"Of course not, John. I always win."

It was a few days later when John suddenly recalled that Sherlock had been doing an experiment when he caught him. He asked him what it was and why it had been too terrible to make in their room.

"It's nothing that concerns you," Sherlock answered dismissively.

Perhaps it did and perhaps it didn't. But John saw Sherlock's face and knew that this was not something Sherlock would share at him. John left it at that but he couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed.


	4. A Visit to St Bart's (Part One)

**Notes: Featuring a jealous Sherlock, an estranged John, and phones. This chapter is split into two. This focuses more on Sherlock's POV. The second one will be more about John.**

* * *

**SHERLOCK**

It was blue. It was lumpy and did little to tell the viewer that there was a human torso beneath it. It looked scratchy as well, and as Sherlock had much experience with John's jumpers (also known as the wonderfully absorbent things that never failed to clean Sherlock's messier experiments) he assumed that it was irritating to the skin. John, however, did not look like he was having any trouble with his jumper which Sherlock found odd. He had borrowed one of those monstrosities before when John had accidentally lugged all of his clothing to the laundry room, leaving Sherlock with no option other than to steal borrow some of John's more acceptable attire. Briefly, Sherlock wondered if John's skin had adapted to the texture of his badly-knitted jumpers. Perhaps that was the reason why he had such a big smile on his face.

But then, the thing was blue, and while it was an eyesore, its color made up for it. Or perhaps John made up for it. Either way, it was the kind of blue John looked good in, which was the color of a very clean swimming pool (Sherlock had seen a yellow swimming pool in his childhood, and even then he had known that it was not because the tiles were yellow and affecting the water). It somehow brought more attention to his eyes. And rarely did John make any effort to look good.

Sherlock lowered his book to scrutinize the rest of his outfit. His jeans, Sherlock noticed, were a little tight which meant they were brand new. His shoes had been cleaned, though specks of mud—and amusingly, blue ink—still showed here and there. He had done his best to flatten his hair and—Sherlock sniffed—he was wearing cologne.

There were many reasons why John would dress up on a Saturday, but Sherlock disliked all of them. He disliked the likeliest one most of all but as John had this goofy grin on his face, well, the truth was always a pain in the gluteus maximus.

"You have a date," he said, and he was aware that it sounded almost accusing. He jutted his tongue against the roof of his mouth to keep from slipping.

"It's not really a date," John answered, but the ridiculous grin on his face told Sherlock otherwise. "Sarah and I are just going out for coffee. I asked her last night and she agreed. It's just a paper thing."

"You're wearing blue."

"Yeah. Does it look okay?"

John looked good in blue. It was not that Sherlock found him stunningly attractive in that color, but he had learned enough to know which colors suited people. For example, Lestrade looked better in earth colors than in bright ones, and he knew that of all colors, Sherlock looked best in purple. John's color was blue while yellow was an atrocious choice for him. Yellow made him look like a chipmunk, or something remotely small and feeble. A hedgehog, maybe.

Sherlock wished he had worn yellow today.

"You'd look better in yellow," he answered before he dropped his eyes on the page he had been reading before John walked in.

"Really? Yellow's…Nah, I think I'd stick around in this." John checked his reflection in the mirror again. He had done so five times already. Sherlock did not bother to tell him that his appearance couldn't possibly change drastically in a span of five minutes when they were only in their room.

_John has a date, John will be distracted for the whole day and possibly the day after, the whole week if things go bad, the whole year if things go well. John will be annoying later on so it is best to keep away from him six hours after his return from his date. John will tell you all about Sarah and her bits and pieces, bits and pieces such as eyes and nose and lips which people use to tell you how attractive the person who currently has their attention is. You couldn't care less about Sarah's bits and pieces. If she were dead and decomposing she would be of use, but her bits and pieces are still fresh and it is not at all acceptable to claim them and use them for experiments while Sarah is still alive. Her bits and pieces, therefore, shall remain untouched for the mean time._

Sherlock frowned and turned a page. John had picked a horrible day to become sociable.

"What are you reading?"

_John will make small talk before his date. This is something that many inexperienced men and women do when they are waiting for an important event. However, the amount of anxiety is correlated with the importance of said event. An example of this is Lestrade's second wedding. Lestrade had experience with the opposite sex before but that did not stop him from heaving a healthy amount of bile on the bestman's (Mycroft) shoes before we entered the church._

"Bees," Sherlock answered, despite himself.

"What for?"

"They have sparked my interest."

"Ah." There was an awkward silence on John's part. Sherlock turned another page.

"Hey."

Ignore him was what Sherlock thought but his body and anger betrayed him. He looked up, his brows furrowed ever so slightly. "John, I am trying to learn how the behavior of a bumble bee differs from that of a carpenter bee. You keep interrupting me."

The corners of John's lips tweaked. John is amused, Sherlock noted. "You said 'bumble'."

"I am quite aware I said 'bumble."

John shrugged and the small smile broke into a full grin. "I don't know…it sounds funny."

"You are making fun of me. Kindly leave."

"No, not stupid funny. Just…weird." John wrinkled his nose which meant he was thinking hard. If he were taking an exam right now he would be tapping a pencil against his temple. "You know…cute. Like little kid cute."

Sherlock had been called many things before. When people flattered his physical appearance, the words were usually handsome (family members), stunning (Molly), drop-dead gorgeous (Molly's friends), and sexy (Peterson, bless his perverted soul). Never cute, however. Cute was associated with over-stuffed animals, small children, and cartoon characters. Sometimes cute could be associated with older human begins. Yuki Jackson who was petite and had large brown eyes was said to be cute. And John himself had been called that word by some of the female seniors, most of them his sister Harry's friends. They were all taller than him and liked to ruffle his hair whenever they passed by him in the hall or when they were on their way to the smoking area outside (only some feet away from Sherlock's tree) and John was moving to the canteen. John was quite small, after all, and he had that weird nose and those jumpers. John was the cute one, not Sherlock.

"I am not cute," was all he said before he practically burrowed his face in his book. Pointing out to John that he was cute was not a good thing, not when John had expressed several displays of homophobia and Sherlock had no intention of starting a relationship.

"I was talking about your behavior," John cried defensively. "Not your appearance."

"I have never been called cute before. It does not suit me."

"No, it doesn't." He could feel John looking at him. Sherlock hated that feeling, hated being the one analyzed and pulled apart. He lifted his head slightly, enough for him to glare at John. John titled his head to the side, causing Sherlock to do the same.

"Stop looking."

John righted his head. Sherlock did as well.

"It's just…You're being extra moody."

_John has learned to tune in to my moods. He is less of an idiot for that._

The mattress dipped when John took a seat next to him. Sherlock lowered his book even further. His nose began to itch when he was hit by the scent of John's cologne. He smelled like Mycroft. "What's wrong?" John asked, his voice laced with concern. "Is it because I'll be gone for the whole day?"

"No." Sherlock scowled. Yes, he thought. Yes because John was leaving and Sherlock had finally planned to tell him his discoveries. He hated Sarah, hated John. Sherlock went back to his book, practically boring holes into it with the intensity of his gaze.

"I'll take that as a yes. You've got nothing to distract you, huh?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"No, that's not right. You haven't been sleeping much and I don't think I've seen you eat at all this week. You've been making an experiment, haven't you? A really big one."

_John is deducing me. John has learned to deduce. He does not state the specifics but he is learning. _Sherlock smiled in spite of himself.

"Did you want to show it to me today? Is that why you're mad?"

Sherlock looked up and John grinned as if saying _jackpot. _This was important. John would make this his priority. He had to.

"It's about—"

John's phone interrupted him. He flipped it out. The excitement on his face told Sherlock that John was gone.

"It's Sarah," he said, grinning. You're stating the obvious, Sherlock thought angrily. He tucked his legs so that his chin was resting on his knees, his book so close to his face it was impossible to read the words.

He felt John get up. "Listen, I have to…uh, get coffee with her. You—you tell me about that later."

There would be no later. Sherlock knew that because when they had their family reunions, all of his more mundane cousins could talk about was sexual intercourse and sticking one's tongue down another's throat. John was not likely to engage in the first activity but perhaps he and Sarah would do the second one. Sticking one's tongue down another's throat was not impossible. Lestrade had been wrong in thinking that Sherlock had deleted the day he'd sat him down and they had The Talk. He remembered that putting a part of yourself in another's mouth (as long as that part was not located south) was acceptable after the first date was accomplished, as long as the fellow participant gave his consent. When under mistletoe, however, there was no choice but to engage in the activity. At least, that was what Sherlock had deduced when Peterson trapped him under a mistletoe last Christmas and nearly choked Sherlock to death with his enthusiasm. He certainly hadn't given him _his _consent.

John was rummaging in his closet, throwing different jumpers into Sherlock's face. Green, brown, yellow (disgusting), red…John had jumpers in every color imaginable.

"Sherlock?" John was holding up a jumper with reindeers on it, a reminder that the holidays were fast approaching. This wasn't what he was looking for, though. "Have you seen my jacket?"

Sherlock had many talents but all of these were overshadowed by his prowess in deduction. The talent which was just as powerful as his ability to observe and specify facts accurately was what Mycroft and Lestrade called The Kicked Puppy Look. When a person he was trying to manipulate began to feel doubt, this was what he used to gain the upper hand once more. Mycroft and Lestrade were immune to it, but they had been tricked once in their lives. John could resist longer, but he too fell victim to it.

"You ruined it in one of your experiments, didn't you?" John sighed, exasperated. There was no trace of anger in his voice which Sherlock took as a good sign. "Sherlock, it's _sno wing_ outside. What am I going to use?"

"Use one of mine."

"Your coats are too tight around the shoulders," John muttered but he opened Sherlock's closet and began looking around. Sherlock owned a dozen coats, all of which he'd only worn once in his life. He always favored the black one even though the hem was already frayed and a few of the original buttons were missing.

"Buy me a new one _today_," John threatened as he opened the door. "And take that foot out of the fridge as well. It's going to make my bagels grow mold."

And then he was gone. Sherlock glared at the door for a few beats before he hurled his book at it. It hit the surface with a satisfying _thwack _and for a moment, Sherlock imagined it had hit John's face. Stupid John and his stupid dates. There were more important things to talk about.

He was lying on the bed with his head over the edge when his phone buzzed, interfering his plans of sending as many annoying texts to John as he possibly could. The screen lit and a number appeared. There was no name but Sherlock knew who it was.

I'm here –VT

Another message appeared as he got up from the bed and pulled on his coat.

Why did you conduct an experiment here? Weren't you the one who made that rule of no experiments? –VT

Even through text, Sherlock could tell that Victor was not mad, just puzzled by his actions. Victor no longer had the right to be mad at him while Sherlock had every right to be. It was not easy however, not when Victor had only done the rational thing, something Sherlock was now sure he would have done were he in his position (he had imagined it by replacing Vincent with John. My croft was too impossible to imagine). There was also the fact that if he were to drive Victor away, all of his progress would be gone. And as slow as his pace was, he did not really want to go back to square one.

It was snowing outside, soft white flakes that brushed against his face and melted in the folds of his scarf. Sherlock hated snow, hated winter. Being skinny he always felt as if he were doused in ice when the holiday season arrived. Winter meant chapped lips and mucus dripping from his nose because his immune system was, as John had put out, 'complete and utter shite' against something so trivial as the common cold. And it was just that. He didn't get TB even when someone who had it was coughing in his face. He didn't get chickenpox or any other contagious disease. It was always just an excess of mucus sliding down his nostrils.

He could feel it now, building in the bridge of his nose, waiting for the right moment to escape. He inhaled sharply and cursed the snow once more. Wishing was irrelevant but Sherlock still hoped it would end. Rain he could tolerate. Snow however was too messy and too white and too fucking _cold_. He was shivering despite his coat and scarf as he moved to the center of the rooftop.

Sherlock had made the smart choice of making tent out of canvas sheets he'd nicked from the art department. It stood over his experiments, most of which he'd left over a Bunsen burner overnight. There was a small space just large enough for one lean person to sit in, and it was currently occupied by Victor.

He smiled at Sherlock but it wasn't a smile that said he was happy to see him. Rather, it was the one that said I-have-no-idea-what-you're-doing-right-now-so-please-explain. It was the kind of smile John often wore whenever he entered their room and found Sherlock standing there with an experiment in his hands.

"I didn't want John to know about it yet," Sherlock replied as he sat down, pushing Victor away so he could sit in the shade. The other boy said nothing and only sat down meekly amidst the snow. "It's about 132 of course."

Victor nodded, the smile still in place. But it was strained, troubled. Worried. For him? Or for Vincent? Sherlock frowned at that. He had given his word that no harm would come to his brother. And when Sherlock did not loathe the person he was promising to, his word was as good as gold.

"You're taking precautions, that's good," Victor said as he handed him the box Sherlock had requested of him. "But I'm sure John's someone you can trust. You're good friends with him, aren't you? You can tell him."

Sherlock scoffed. "And you know John better than me? You haven't even spoken a word to him."

"He's in the paper. We worked together for an article. Also," he said, "I'm better at recognizing trust that you are."

Sherlock said nothing. Well, that was true. Victor was the people expert, not him. He knew behavioral patterns, could tell how intelligent a person was by his clothing, could tell what he had done for the whole day with a mere glance. But when it came to emotions—

"I was supposed to today." He had given it some thought for a long time. For this case to be solved, he needed someone who actually cared about the victims. Acting could only do so much to manipulate people. Before, it was Victor he used to talk to people and find out additional information about them. But as Victor said he wasn't going to involve himself too much in this as he might harm his brother along the way, Sherlock needed the next best thing. And the next best thing happened to be his roommate John Watson.

He had had his share of doubts of course. While Victor was calm and pleasant when he wanted to be, he was also a fighter. Sherlock had doubted John because of his sweaters and history with muggers. He had thought he would be too fearful, too useless. But that silly game had proven him wrong. John was capable of many things which made him invaluable.

Also, he gave Sherlock tea.

"What happened?" Victor asked. He picked up a beaker and sniffed its contents. Sherlock quickly took it from his grasp then grimaced when he answered, "He went on a date."

A snort. Victor suppressing a laugh. Sherlock's scowl deepened and the box practically flew from his hands when he wrenched it open. Inside, running over each other in fear were six albino mice.

"I already replaced them," Victor said when he'd regained himself. "Vincent will know if Carmichael's supply is running low."

Carmichael was Vincent Trevor's pet boa constrictor. It resided in a glass aquarium in the twins' shared bedroom in their new apartment which was only a short distance away from the school. Sherlock had never seen it, but Victor had told him enough stories for Sherlock to immediately associate guinea pigs to Carmichael's source of nutrition.

"You could have bought some in the pet shop downtown." A mouse began to jump up and down against one side of the carton walls. Sherlock shook the box so it would fall down on top of the others.

"I have no idea where this pet shop is and you went home a while ago so I thought of contacting you as you have easier access to small rodents. I prefer something larger to experiment on, but as it will be difficult to get rid of the bodies, I'll settle for something small."

"The eyeballs you keep in your fridge don't count?"

"Lestrade knows about that. This, however."

He picked up a beaker. The electric blue liquid inside cast an eerie glow on the skin of his hand. There were seven of them. Four had already been proven as failures. He had tested them on the remaining mice he'd stolen from the science department and all of them had lived for three days until the cold finally took them. Sherlock had expected them to die within an hour as the victims of 132 had.

"I did my research and through my connections ("You mean those homeless people you pay to spy on others or your connection with your uncle?" "Both, of course") I was able to find out that the victims had died in a span of sixty minutes. The drug's something they've never seen before, but some say it's a combination of sorts. I'm trying to recreate it, and if possible, create an antidote." He looked up and met Victor's eyes. "You know, if I get too involved in this."

"Let's hope you never have to use that antidote."

They fed the mice the drugs for a while and waited for the result. As Sherlock had expected, they were still alive by the end of the hour. And these were rats, not humans. Sherlock sighed angrily.

"I'll clean up," Victor offered, his voice quiet. "Go down and do something…destructive."

"I—"

Another buzz. Sherlock opened the message.

We got another one –EH

"I have to go."

"Where?"

"St. Bart's."

St. Bart's was the hospital three blocks away from Banhart's. Sherlock had not been born there but he had spent a great deal of his childhood pestering the nurses or sneaking the private rooms of patients. When he was nine he had begun to explore the morgues much to the attendant's chagrin. The reason for this was because the director was the younger brother of Sherlock's father, a certain Dr. Etienne Holmes who loved both of his nephews to death. So much that he seldom refused them of anything. And Sherlock's requests were often, well, not normal.

He was not a welcome presence in the hospital but as his uncle had given him free reign to the building, there was nothing they could do. The receptionist scowled at him then handed him to Paula who greeted Sherlock with a beatific smile. Paula was a woman in her forties, the kind of person who liked everyone, even sociopaths like him. She had known Sherlock since he was a little boy clutching his uncle's coat and begging him to let him watch an open heart surgery.

"Your uncle stepped out for a while dear," she said. Sherlock could smell the coffee on her breath mixed with the scent of a tuna sandwich. It was past lunch time but as Sherlock's uncle was, like him, a workaholic, he must have gone out to eat. The basement canteen was never an option for him. He must have eaten somewhere expensive, perhaps one of the restaurants that lined the street on his way here. His uncle would take his time.

"I'm here to see a patient," he said. "Uncle told you that, of course."

"Oh yes, dear. Just a peek now, alright? Poor child's resting."

I should text John, he thought as they rode the elevator to the fifth floor. Or Victor. But then John was on his stupid date and Sherlock was sure that no matter how many times he texted him, he wouldn't reply. Calling was only for emergencies and he was sure that this was not an emergency, at least, not to John. Victor it was then.

Someone overdosed again –SH

The reply took a little longer than he'd expected. They were already walking down the hall when his screen lit up and a new message appeared.

Cleaned your mess and congratulations. Don't interrupt, please. I'm on a date –VT

Victor was on a date? Since when did Victor date? Sherlock went back to their meeting a while ago. Yes, Victor had looked more refined than he usually did, though his attempts to look good were more subtle than John. Sherlock had been too busy testing the drugs to take notice.

You date? –SH

Chelsea Roberts, a sophomore. She asked me out. I couldn't think of a good enough excuse to deny her so here I am. Many people are on dates today as Christmas is almost here and people will be going to their own homes. –VT

That was unexpected, Victor –SH

Don't be so surprised, Sherlock. I actually do take notice of people, unlike you. –VT

People are boring –SH

And that's your problem. Now can you please leave it be for a while? –VT

When we talk again, do not tell me about Chelsea's bits and pieces. John will do that to me later. –SH

Promise. Don't text or call for a while, okay? –VT

Sherlock ignored that last one. Paula had stopped in front of a room. "Just a peek, darling," she told Sherlock and stepped aside so he could peer into the small square window in the door.

He felt as if his breath had been knocked out of him when he saw the familiar blond hair. Despite Paula's protests, he wrenched open the door and burst in, running to the side of the bed and thinking _John's hurt something went wrong with John he's in a hospital bed someone hurt John. _

But when he reached the bed and his panic ebbed, he saw that it wasn't John. But it was certainly a reason why he should call him.

Sherlock took his phone and dialed John's number.

* * *

**JOHN**

When he'd invited Sarah out for coffee, he had assumed it would just be the two of them. They would talk about the articles they'd written for a while then slowly shift to a different topic until it was just the two of them getting to know each other. He had planned it all out and had played the scene in his head a thousand times during the ride to the café. He had even dared to imagine a kiss at the end, with Sarah thanking him for such a lovely time and asking him if he'd be glad to be her boyfriend.

The thing was, John did not like Sarah. Yes, he was attracted to her. She was beautiful and smart and funny but there was no spark. He would be smitten with her when she was in the same room as him, but she was not someone he'd remember when she wasn't in his eyesight. Nevertheless, he wanted to have a girlfriend, or at least, someone to spend time with when Mike and Davis were on their dates. He had never had a proper relationship his whole life as his family travelled too much. He had been kissed and once, had nearly gotten to third base with an Australian girl whose name might have been Lisa or Georgia. He had his chance now and he wanted to use it. But there were always obstacles in his path.

Sarah hadn't invited them. They just happened to stumble in the café, scattering snow everywhere and laughing crazily when they found him and Sarah sitting a table together. They ruffled John's hair and squeezed in the booth with them. John knew that Sherlock was right in that moment. Brother's were a pain.

The one with the glasses—Alex, was it? There were four of them and they all looked alike—had taken John's sandwich off the plate and was quickly devouring it. Salami squeezed out of the bread and fell on the table with a slap, causing the other three boys to laugh hysterically. Kids from uni. John wondered if he would act like this once he graduated. He certainly hoped not.

Sarah, however, seemed to be enjoying herself. Her attention had drifted to her brothers who were telling stories about skiing and playing hockey. John nodded every now and then and would only smile when they talked about rugby which he considered a safe zone. He didn't dare make a move on Sarah as all of her brothers were tall and well-muscled. They could easily take him on and kill him with a mere punch. So John stayed quiet and did his best to seem invisible.

"Look at that," Brandon, the one with the pierced ears, said. He was pointing at the waitress who had passes by their table and flashed each boy a lascivious smile. He turned to the others. "Who wants a shot with her?"

"How about Johnny here?" Samuel, the youngest of the four said. He locked an arm around John's shoulders. It was meant to be a friendly gesture but John couldn't help but feel as if he were being crushed.

"No thanks," he wheezed. "I, uh, I'm fine here."

'Bet then," Tobias, the eldest and Brandon's twin told them. "Whoever gets her number first gets to have dad's car all to himself all week."

"Deal!"

Then they were up, pushing each other out of the way to get to the girl faster. Sarah laughed. "You're brothers are quite," he paused, searched for a word that was not negative," they're quite, er, enthusiastic?"

"Is that the word?" Sarah asked, watching amusedly as each boy tried to get the girl's attention. "They're pretty rowdy, but they're a lot of fun. They're always there for me."

They both watched as Brandon grabbed the girl's hand. She giggled and tried to shoo him away, only to be stopped by Alex.

"Looks like they'll be busy for a while."

"Yeah…a while."

He looked up to see that Sarah was looking at him, smiling. John gulped. Was this it? Was it the right time to kiss her? His heart was pounding in his chest and the whole world seemed to melt away until there was only him and her and a bunch of empty coffee cups on the table. John leaned forward, grinning when he saw that she was doing the same.

His phone ruined the moment.

He jerked back, surprised that Canon in D was playing in his pocket. He hadn't changed his ringtone. It was supposed to be just a simple ring. Sherlock must have done something to it.

What was it now? He was irritated but curious. Sherlock hadn't bombarded him with texts all day which was quite odd. He usually did that when he was out with Mike and Davis, all of them messages about how bored he was and how ugly John's clothes were (an indication that he was rummaging his closet again). He had been silent all day and John had wondered if this was because Sherlock had been trying to tell him something important before he left. The prospect of kissing Sarah had wiped it all out.

And then John remembered. Sherlock never called unless it was an emergency.

"John," he said, "It's Harry."

Sarah looked at him, concern written all over her face. "What's wrong?" she asked when he set the phone down.

John shook his head, got up, and walked out of the café without a word. He hailed a cab and closed his eyes during the ride, feeling his guts clench with fear.

* * *

**SHERLOCK**

There were bruises on her face, angry purplish-blue bruises that contrasted sharply against her pallor. Her knuckles were scraped and bloodied which meant she had fought back. There were abrasions on her wrists and knees. She had been on the floor, gravel, perhaps. She hadn't been dragged. The scratches weren't long enough. More likely she had fallen and landed on all fours.

"They pumped her stomach a while ago," Jonas the orderly informed Sherlock when he stopped by to scold him for standing too close. "It's a miracle she's alive. Almost didn't make it."

"I'll call your uncle to tell him you're already here, darling," Paula said as she handed Sherlock a cup of tea and a few biscuits which he left untouched. "Don't touch anything, love."

Sherlock wasn't touching anything. He was merely watching, observing. He tiled his head to the side and looked at her face. She did not look much like John but when she was asleep the family resemblance was strong. Sherlock was relieved that it was not John who was in the hospital bed, but to say so, he knew, would be cruel.

His uncle was very late. John arrived before him, his eyes wild when he came into the room. He looked disheveled and flushed telling Sherlock he had run the whole way and that his appearance was not because he had been physically intimate with Sarah.

"Oh god," he said when he saw his sister. "Oh god oh god oh god."

Panicking. John was panicking. Sherlock took in the signs. The wild eyes, the ragged breathing, the pacing. Sherlock stood up. What was the best way to calm a person down? He frowned at that. He did not panic much as his emotions were always kept well in control. And when he did, when he lost himself, there was never anyone to help him. Sherlock had always assumed that the best way to control your emotions was to think that only eight percent of the things you worried about ever came true. But this was not applicable to the current situation so Sherlock relied on his instincts.

He placed a hand on John's good shoulder, steadying him. "John, calm down."

"How can I calm down?" It was almost a scream and Sherlock backed away slightly but he did not let go of John. "Harry's…oh god, what am I going to tell my grandparents? And my folks are in Sicily. Shit shit shit!"

"Not your fault."

"No but she is my responsibility. Sherlock." And with a final grunt of frustration he collapsed against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock wondered at the feeling of so much contact. John was warm against him and tense. He could tell that even with just John's face touching him. And there was something wet on his shirt. Oh—

John was crying.

Crying. What did you do when someone was crying? Sherlock tried to remember when was the last time he had cried in public. He froze when he remembered that it had been in his father's funeral. Yes, that was right. He was seven years old when that happened and he hadn't mastered control yet. He hadn't bawled but he had teared up and that was enough for his mother to gather him in his arms and hold him there.

A hug. Was that what John needed?

It was strange and awkward. Sherlock had never hugged anyone back before, only his parents and his uncle. For a while he wondered if he was doing it right until he realized that John was not as tense as before. And John was hugging him back, his hands digging into the space between Sherlock's shoulder blades, shaking ever so slightly. He was getting Sherlock's shirt wet with his tears but Sherlock realized he didn't mind.

"John," he said when John finally pulled away. His eyes were red and his face was splotchy. But this was definitely the right time for it.

He opened his mouth but the words wouldn't come. The explanations, the discoveries, the test drugs, none of it came out. He looked at John who was busily rubbing his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

"I'm sorry."

He wasn't supposed to say that. His mind hadn't made the choice. But…it seemed alright.


End file.
